Sunday. On Age.

I guess it's only natural (and oh-so old-world) to start a new publication with a letter of intent. Or at least a motivation for the title. Well, the title is what it is because Google rejected my previous attempt of "mylifeatthirty". Thinking back on it, it's probably for the better, as there's surely a romantic comedy out there with the name. Or there will be.

I've often toyed with the idea of an anonymous blog. Even started one, at some point, the title of which now escapes me along with the clever incognito email address I had set up to manage it. It's (or, as the case goes, it would be) a very convenient way to vent frustration and peddle advice according to whatever twisted persona you have lying inside but don't want associated with your real name. And then I turned thirty.

So this will be a (however short-lived) experiment on responsibility. Real name on the email and all that. Because at thirty, at least in my case, you start losing just enough hope to give you balls. No matter what anyone says, twenty-something is not a period of opportunity. It's true you have your whole life ahead of you, and all the opportunities there are, but hell, who could imagine a bigger, badder responsibility than having to decide what your life will be like. No wonder we go apeshit at twenty, doing all the things we wouldn't want our fictitious children to be doing - the embarassment of choice is just too much to bear. And then I turned thirty. A month ago.

I guess the thing that gets to me the most are the things I'm not going to be anymore. Things I never was. A rock star. A photographer to the world. A rich young executive (what? I can be vain). But while a number of years ago I was still entertaining the notion of a shadow of a possibility (I still had time, after all), these days I'm beginning to settle into finding out who I am. Instead of who I would like to be. Or could be. Not beacuse I turned thirty. Or maybe yes, because of it, in a "let's use a starting point defined by others because it's convenient and it makes a great argument" way, it's sort of easier. Just like the next Monday you always promise yourself to start doing push-ups in the morning. And now that I'm thirty, that metaphorical Monday just got closer. The actual push-up one too, come to think of it. My slender body ain't what it used to be.

Or maybe it's just writing. I haven't done that in a while. Might pop a photo or two too.

Who knows.

I'm thirty. It's a first for me.